


Enlightenment

by 1478963255



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Clothed Sex, Confessional, Confessional Sex, Crying, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Men Crying, Porn with Feelings, Religion, Rough Kissing, Unbeta'd we die like Glenn, confessional booth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22426801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1478963255/pseuds/1478963255
Summary: Byleth seeks out Seteth late at night for a confession. His emotions overcome him and he finds solace in Seteth's arms.M/M relationship. Emotional sex, crying, frottage, unresolved feelings.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 20
Kudos: 220





	Enlightenment

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, this one took a while to write. It seems it's impossible for me to write any sort of porn without massive plot and anything less than 8k words anymore. This turned out far longer than I thought it would but I really enjoyed writing it so didn't want to rush it.
> 
> To those of you who have read, commented and kudos'ed my work recently, thank you! I will get back to you all when I can - I'm not dead!  
> Unbeta'd so if you spot any mistakes, let me know and I'll fix them.  
> Note: I used and referenced a traditional Catholic confessional for this piece since I'm not sure how it works in other religions. Sorry if this upsets anyone but it was the best thing I had for reference. Thanks for understanding.

Seteth lamented the destruction of his church.

The building that once stood tall and proud, a beacon of hope to all those lost in the dark, had been sundered and turned to nothing but a flickering ebb of light. The ceiling was cracked, the once magnificent slate roofs now shattered into ash and dust littering the magnificent marble floor. That too had been all but destroyed. Cracked with deep fragments running through the material, Seteth stared hard at it.

It had taken many decades to build something so impressive. He remembered hearing from across the land that a new magnificent building, devoted to the teachings of Seiros had been erected. He never thought that centuries later, he would be asked to teach there and that his daughter would find purpose with other students at the church.

But that was five years ago.

War had ravaged Fódlan for almost as long as Seteth could remember. He knew that it would come again. It always did. He never imagined it would tear apart the country as much as this, however.

He never thought it would ultimately take away Seiros herself.

He sighed heavily and stood facing the once awe-inspiring statue of the Goddess. She had stood tall and proud, a symbol of faith to all. Now, it lay crumbled and shattered, destroyed when the ceiling caved in. He stared at the pile of rubble with a forlorn expression, lamenting the destruction of a place he had finally, after aeons, been able to call home.

“Seteth.”

The archbishop’s aid turned to glance over his shoulder. Shrouded in a halo of moonlight stood the professor.

With glittering green hair and emerald hair as bright as Seiros’ own, Seteth was right to have his suspicions about the man all those years ago. Suddenly arriving, almost six years ago, with his father, a man who had abandoned and disappeared from the church with his baby when a fire dubiously erupted, the timing of the young professor’s arrival was almost too perfect to be coincidental. From the way Rhea had stared at the young man when they met, and immediately granted him a professorship, he knew that there was more to this man than met the eye.

A stony expression always laid across his face, unflinching and without any emotion. Only once had Seteth seen any kind of emotion cross the other’s face and that was when the church had been besieged by Edelgard. That flash of determination. Yes. It was something that could inspire nations. Seteth understood in that blink of a moment why Rhea had trusted the man so earnestly.

It was not to say that Seteth trusted the other himself. He was still suspicious. What kind of other power lay within the man? One had to be wary of a man who seemingly did not know the limits of his own power and strength. He had disappeared, seemingly dead after being thrown into an endless chasm at the edge of the mountain, only to return five years later with a different hair and eye colour and a claim that he ‘was sleeping’. It was hard to believe. Perhaps the other powers he possessed allowed him to live whilst stuck in the ravine.

_“Seteth.”_

The voice came again. Calm, steady, unwavering. The professor stood stock-still in the crumbled archway with his arms at his side. He always was slightly awkward; never sure of how to hold himself, as a normal person would.

“Archbishop.”

“It is cold. Should you not be in bed?”

“I could say the same of you, archbishop.”

Byleth took a few steps forward, the gentle press of his leather against the marbled floor made him move silently, almost as if he were gliding. “Please, the title does not belong to me.”

“Nonetheless, it is yours to bear,” Seteth said, regarding the professor once the other man came to stand beside him. The other’s gaze was cast downwards, at the floor, glimmering green eyes focusing on the inscription that once lay at the base of the statue of the Goddess. Byleth’s lips were pulled tight and his eyes were hard. He did not blink.

“It is not a title I wanted,” he said quietly.

“It is a burden none wish to shoulder.” Seteth paused and turned to face forwards. “I apologise.”

The two men stood in silence in the centre of the cathedral, amongst the ashen rubble, shattered rainbow glass, splintered pews, and cracked marble floor. Hymn books lay strewn across the floor too, scattered and forgotten with pages ruined from either fire or rain. Seteth fondly remembered holding the books in his palms and singing to the heavens so that the goddess could hear him, eventually becoming so acquainted with the songs that he no longer needed the books, sometimes taking charge of choir practice when the usual nun was unavailable.

He enjoyed leading the students in song and in prayer. He was the archbishop’s right-hand, the man who helped to keep all things organised and in harmony but that was not to say that he did not have some hobbies for himself. He particularly liked to teach the students the importance of faith and how an unshakable faith allowed one to unlock their inner strengths.

“Seteth.”

The green-haired man startled, and he sighed heavily. “My deepest apologies, archbishop. I am lost in thought.”

Byleth hummed. “Yes, I can see. What are you thinking of?”

Seteth lifted his head and gazed up at the open ceiling of the cathedral, where the stars glittered against the obsidian back-drop of the sky. “The church. And how it used to be.”

Silence fell between them and Seteth could sense the awkwardness coming from Byleth. The other man had no idea how to respond. Though sometimes, a response was not necessary. The silence was comfortable enough, besides the awkward twitching and fidgeting of the professor as he tried to think of a reply.

“Do not feel as if you must speak,” Seteth said calmly. “Silence often speaks louder than words.”

“I feel I must say something. I…” The professor hesitated and then turned to look at the other man. “I am sorry that this has happened. I know that you care deeply for this church and its students. The state of ruin of the church must cause you great sadness.” Softly, almost inaudibly, Seteth caught his last words. “I tried to avoid this.”

Seteth nodded slowly. Yes, it was true; to see his home in such disarray tugged at his heart in a way most painful. It reminded him of when he lost his wife; the agonizing heartbreak of watching her life slip away knowing that she would never come back. The same could have been said for the church; it might be rebuilt, yes, but it would never be the way it was, glistening and perfect. The scar of its destruction would forever remain.

“It could not have been avoided. This place has become a home for Flayn and I, and… to see it in such disrepair breaks my heart. I can only imagine how much it must hurt her too.” Seteth’s brow furrowed heavily at the thought of Flayn’s crestfallen expression, tiny fingers grazing over ruined books and shattered rubble. “I do hope we can rebuild it one day.”

“I will do everything I can to make it so.”

The green-haired man turned to look at the professor, whose expression was as hard and stony as ever. But glittering in those bright emerald eyes and pulled in that heavy brow was a look of determination, something that Seteth had come to recognise over the last few years and despite his absence, he recognised it all the same.

“Do not feel as if it is your burden to undertake. I will make the necessary arrangements when the time is right.”

“What is an archbishop without a church? I will bear this responsibility.”

A sly smile crawled across Seteth’s lips. Was that an attempt at humour? He hummed to himself; the professor certainly had changed. Still as awkward and stiff in his expressions, but his heart – _yes_ , there was a newfound strength in his heart. A new kind of power that drove him, something beyond a mere mercenary’s hunger and professor’s diligence and care for students. His heart was… _warmer_ , if Seteth had to describe it. As if a higher power were guiding him.

“Are you still a priest, Seteth?”

The question caught the green-haired man off-guard and he glanced at Byleth with his eyebrows raised. “I… yes. A priest never ceases his mission.”

“I should like to speak with you.”

“We are speaking now.”

“No. I should like to speak privately.”

“A confession?”

“Ah, so that is what it is called… yes, a confession, if you will.”

Seteth tilted his head slightly. “You have never heard of a confession?”

Byleth faced Seteth with a soft smile across his pale thin lips. The moonlight trickled in through the open door of the cathedral, lighting a silvery path along the shattered marble floor before it danced up the professor’s frame. Adorned in his archbishop’s garb and glittering silver, Seteth thought for a moment he might resemble a saint. A sacrilegious and foolish thought, he quickly reminded himself. Perhaps the former mercenary _was_ now guided by a higher power but no… he was no saint.

“The concept is one familiar to me but no, I did not know there was a word for it. My father, of course, never took me to church.”

Seteth returned the gentle smiled. “Of course.” He turned his body and gestured towards the far corner of the church, opposite where the saint statues still stood – chipped, filthy and covered in layers of dust and rubble, but they stood, nonetheless. In the opposite corner of the church was a small alcove, hidden from the sight of the rest of the cathedral. It had become the confessional chamber where a small booth had been set up, divided into two with a scarlet curtain draped across both entrances where priest and sinner would enter. Seteth gestured with an open palm towards the alcove and Byleth stepped forward.

“I suppose you have never seen a confessional booth before.”

Byleth hummed. “No, I have not. Forgive me for my ignorance, Seteth, but… how does the process go?”

Seteth smiled to himself once more. The professor, it seemed, was still as naïve as the day he set foot into the monastery. The concept of religion was totally alien to him and whilst he scorned Jeralt for neglecting to teach his son about something as substantial as faith, in a land where a church had the greatest political power, he acknowledged Jeralt’s want to leave his past behind him. Especially after what Rhea had done.

Was this why Byleth now sought a confessional? To discuss his feelings about his father and his past? To unload the burdens that he had carried throughout his life as a mercenary up to this very point in time?

“It is simple enough but one that can leave a person feeling… enlightened. Or redeemed. It can be a powerful emotional moment for some.” The two men walked in silence towards the darkened alcove of the corner of the church, kicking rubble, boots scuffing in the ancient dust. “To allow one’s sins to be lifted and forgiven by the Goddess, it can change one’s life.”

“I see. And that is why people confess?”

“Perhaps.” Seteth gestured to the booth and Byleth’s bright emerald eyes gazed upon it. The priest couldn’t quite read the expression in the other man’s eyes; was it wonder? Disappointment? He wasn’t so sure. Seteth turned to light the small candles that were little more than puddles that sat upon a table. He remembered all those years ago that he was going to bring in fresh ones. But he never did.

“People confess for different reasons,” Seteth continued, golden flames flickering to life, still low and blue on the blackened wicks. “Some believe that confessing absolves one of sin; by acknowledging the sin, one can begin their path to repentance and regain the Goddess’ favour for only she can forgive. I, and other priests at the cathedral act as vessels for this forgiveness, following the Goddess’ teachings. Once the sin has been confessed, the priest can then absolve and forgive the sinner if they deem that there is true repentance within that person’s soul and commence with the sacrament of reconciliation.”

Turning to glance over his shoulder, Seteth caught Byleth’s gaze. It was almost empty, but the saint couldn’t help but smile. In the tiniest quirk of an eyebrow and downward pull of Byleth’s lips, he could see he was confused.

“You said it was simple.”

“It is. For you,” Seteth said warmly, placing a hand upon the former professor’s shoulder. “All you need to do is confess.”

Byleth’s lips pulled into a tighter line and his gaze fixed on the floor between them. The amber flames of the candle’s flickering glittered along the gold of Byleth’s jewellery, hanging around his neck and about his shoulder. The crown atop his bright green hair was immaculately polished and shining in the low light between them so that Seteth could almost see his reflection in the gold.

“What if… I do not seek the Goddess’ forgiveness?”

Seteth frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It is not her forgiveness I seek.” Byleth’s brows drew together in a frown and he worried his lower lip between his teeth, biting at it. In all his years of service at the church, Seteth had never heard something so curious before. When students, staff, and those from outside the church came to confess, it was to regain the Goddess’ blessing and favour once again. Never had he heard of someone confessing and _not_ to receive absolution. It was a puzzling thought to him, and he frowned too.

“Then… whose is it that you seek?”

Byleth remained quiet for a few long moments. “I wish to forgive myself.”

Silence fell upon the two men and Seteth let go of Byleth’s shoulder. With his head tucked into his chest and the high collar of his robes surrounding his head, Seteth could barely look upon the former mercenary’s face. He could see the pull of his eyebrows, the flutter of his eyelashes against his high cheekbones and the downwards tug of his lips, still drawn between his teeth. For a few agonizingly slow moments, the priest was unsure of what to say and the silence that stretched between them burned.

Quietly, he whispered so not as to startle Byleth. “When you enter the booth, you must begin with ‘forgive me, oh Goddess, for I have sinned’. Then we will begin.”

Without another word, Byleth turned and stepped beneath the scarlet curtain. It grazed the floor but Seteth could still see the tips of his perfectly polished black boots through the sliver that remained. Seteth let his eyes fall shut and he inhaled steadily and deeply, filling his diaphragm as tightly as he could before letting the breath out between his lips. It had been half a decade, perhaps even longer, since he had last heard another confess. For some reason, he felt nervous. Anxiety tickled in his throat, constricting him, and his palm came to rub over his neck, pulling at his collar. He tried his best to swallow. It was difficult.

Igniting a match and shrouding it with his palm, he stepped beneath his own curtain, lighting the small candle that sat at the shelf beside the divider. He sat upon the scarlet cushioned seat and with another steadying breath, he drew back the small window to reveal who he knew was Byleth. Anonymity mattered no more.

Through the shuttered wood he could just about make out his dejected expression, sullen and… _sad_. He stared ahead, his shoulders relaxed and practically limp where he sat as still as a statue in his own half of the booth. Seteth waited, staring through the wood at Byleth, not wanting to startle the other and he allowed him to begin in his own time.

Tortuously long minutes ticked by.

“Forgive me… oh Goddess, for I have sinned.”

Sliding his eyes shut, Seteth turned back in his seat and relaxed his palms in his lap, following the callouses from years of axe training with his fingertips. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

“I… I have never confessed before.”

Seteth knew this and yet, followed procedure, as any other priest should or would. “Speak, and the Goddess shall absolve.”

Byleth fell quiet and Seteth dared not open his eyes. He knew that if he saw the saddened expression upon the new archbishop’s face, he would not be able to remain unbiased. He struggled already; he wanted to use comforting and warm words to aid the professor, to help the man struggling with his own forgiveness, but knew that he could not. It was the Goddess, and her only who would absolve Byleth of his sins.

“I… I have killed.”

Seteth knew this too. Of course, he did. He had heard it, _seen_ it with his own eyes. He remembered the stony expression that was upon the professor’s face when he first joined the academy; fresh-faced and young, oblivious to the real world and practices of the church and how that same empty expression clung to his face when he cut through bandits when he took his class out to battle. He would wipe down his sword with a damp cloth without a second thought, without thinking about the lives he had ended, without a single word uttered.

And Seteth could remember how slowly, over time, the professor became more… _alive_. How, as he spent time with the students, the professors, and with people besides mercenaries for the first time in his life, he seemed to _breathe_. The first time that Seteth saw him smile was when Flayn beamed a thank you when the professor gave her an owl feather. A simple gesture, one that was very awkward in the way that he handed it to her but when she smiled brightly and clutched it to her chest, Seteth saw the corner of Byleth’s mouth turn upwards for the first time ever.

Perhaps he had smiled before then and Seteth simply had not been around to see it. But he could tell it was new to the young man. The smile was awkward and only on one side, but it was a smile, nonetheless.

From then on, as the months drew on and his class grew, Byleth smiled more often. Still small, just a quirk of the lips without a crinkle in his eyes, but he was learning to express himself.

When he went to the battlefield then, his eyebrows would draw together, nostrils flare, teeth bare and lips curl back. He charged and roared with an energy Seteth had never seen before from the professor. There was a power within him that he could feel practically emanating from him. Rhea could feel it too. Was it because he had learned how to feel for the first time in his life? Perhaps. After those battles, he took care to check on his students and tend to their wounds with what little white magic he knew. Once, Seteth had seen the professor stare down at a slain bandit, gruff and ugly with a deep gouge from a lance to his gut, blood spilling and mixing with the dirt. He had knelt and traced a hand down the side of the brute’s face with such gentle care one would have thought he was touching a baby. His gloved hand came over the bandit’s face, and with a feather-like touch, drew the glassy wide eyes shut so that he could rest. It almost became a ritual to Byleth after that, closing the eyes of the dead so that they could rest, as his students picked themselves and each other up, oblivious to their professor. But Seteth had watched.

“The Goddess acknowledges your sin.”

It was not what Byleth wanted to hear. Seteth heard the other man sigh and the priest hesitated for a moment, his chest tightening.

“If you wish to seek her forgiveness… and your own, you must speak plainly. Be honest with yourself.”

There was a pause. “In truth… I have lost count of how many I have killed. Since I could first hold a sword, to this very day… I do not know how many whose lives I have ended.” Byleth spoke in staggered sentences, as if trying to find the right words. As if he were in pain. “They were people too. Just like me. Trying to make a living by any means necessary… who was to say I was any better than them? I was killing for coin… it is not a life I wish to go back to.”

“You acknowledge your sin of wrath and greed… you can begin on your path to repentance.”

Byleth continued as if he hadn’t heard Seteth. “I remember how I felt nothing when I killed my first man. How my blade stuck in his chest and his eyes stared up at me. I was only thirteen. Thirteen years old I had taken my first life…” There was another pregnant pause. “I continued on that path because I knew no better. A part of me did, I think. That this was not how life was meant to be. But I had no idea how it could be otherwise. How was I to know there was more to life than blood, women, and coin? How was I to know that there were blue skies, open fields, happiness, friends and—” Byleth hiccupped.

Seteth twisted his head just a fraction so that he could see Byleth through the shuttered wood. Through the intricate patterns, he could see his lower lip quivering. Byleth’s shoulders had drawn up and were tight about his collar, shaking slightly with the effort of trying not to completely crumble. Seteth wanted nothing more than to rest a hand on Byleth’s shoulder, perhaps even embrace him and let him unleash his emotions. How long had he gone without crying? Seteth had never seen it, only heard about it when Jeralt had died before his son’s very eyes.

He wanted to keep his composure, to maintain decorum, and continue to play his role as priest but found himself wavering. Seteth sank his fingers into his own thighs, clutching at the fabric of his robes. Byleth’s gentle sobs and hiccupping slowly chipped away at his resolve and Seteth lifted his chin, breathing in slowly and deeply through flared nostrils to try and control himself.

When had he become such an emotionally weak man? _Was_ it a weakness? To feel compassion for another person so clearly in distress and suffering? One might think so. Seteth himself wasn’t so sure. To feel kindness and a great deal of care towards another could have been seen as a weakness… and in the past, Seteth had agreed. But in the shape of Flayn, it became his strength. His love for his daughter, his admiration and devotion towards Rhea, and the love he had for the monastery empowered him and gave him something to fight for.

Byleth too, it seemed, had joined that list.

Seteth cleared his throat and tried to his best to stop his own hoarse voice from quivering. “The Goddess acknowledges your sin… but she also acknowledges that sometimes, death is unavoidable. You have protected the church and its inhabitants through your actions. Not all of what you have committed is sin.”

Byleth let out a tiny desperate cry, almost a whimper. His breath was coming in short gasps.

“My father… he died before my eyes,” Byleth managed to continue following several long moments where he hiccupped, sniffled and cried. “I couldn’t find the right words to say. I said nothing. I watched him die… i-in my arms and I said _nothing_. My father… my one and only source of happiness… I never got to tell him that—”

“Your father knows how you felt about him.”

The words escaped Seteth before he could stop himself. It was the truth, of course, but perhaps he should not have said it within the dark oak walls of the confessional booth.

“He…h- _he_ …”

Seteth decided to continue, even if his dutiful brain told him not to. “Your father was fond of you… he loved you, as any parent would love their child. He… spoke of you often to me.” Seteth blinked and returned his gaze to his lap, softening his grip on his own thighs. “He always said how proud he was of you, how you had changed so much since you began to teach at the monastery, and he liked to see you smile. He came to me often, to ask how you were doing with your newfound profession…” Seteth chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head, “and as much as I loathed to admit it at the time, you were incredibly adept at teaching.”

He could hear Byleth crumble through the divider. Through the shuttered wood, he saw Byleth’s head fall into his hands and the sobs came far more freely: quiet, but full of grief. Seteth realised his body ached from being drawn up with tension and so he did his best to relax, to close his eyes and let his head hit the back of the booth.

“Your father was so proud of you. He hated to leave the monastery to go on expeditions on Rhea’s behalf… he wanted to see his son smile. He knows how you felt about him. Do not doubt that.”

Byleth let out a loud wail and Seteth finally closed his mouth, letting his lips come together. He had fallen out of his role as priest, violating the rules of a church confessional. But his heart could not bear to hear Byleth cry any longer… though he had only made it worse. He tried to keep his feet firmly planted on the floor of the booth, afraid that any second his legs would carry him forward and into Byleth’s half before he knew it.

The seat beside him creaked a flood of gold light streamed over Seteth’s face. Standing, illuminated by the glow of the candles behind him, Byleth stood, shoving the scarlet curtain aside. His eyes were rimmed red and sore from excessive rubbing, the tip of his pointed nose an equal shade of pink. His lips were plump from being bitten at, outlined a dusty rose colour. His mint green hair was mussed and dishevelled, laying atop his head like an unbalanced crown of emerald. His collar was pulled awkwardly and wrinkled too. What a pitiful sight.

“ _Seteth_ …” Byleth breathed, crumbling before the saint and falling to his knees so that his head fell into Seteth’s lap. The other man startled, and his cry of surprise choked in his throat when he felt Byleth’s sudden weight upon him.

He continued to weep, sobbing and staining Seteth’s verdant robes with his anguished tears. Frozen, Seteth didn’t move. He simply stared down at the dishevelled crown of green hair buried in his lap, which shook and made noises that were most unbefitting of an archbishop.

But Seteth immediately banished those thoughts from his mind. The poor young man was caught in a whirlwind of torment and pain, whole body quaking as he sobbed uncontrollably. Something in Seteth’s chest stirred, something akin to when his wife had passed. Not as strongly, _no_ , nothing could ever compare but… it was similar. It was as if his heart was being tugged at and wrung far too tightly, breath escaping him in a pained wheeze.

His fingers shakily reached for the top of Byleth’s head and he rested them there, afraid to move lest the pain in his chest worsen. How _selfish_. Byleth was experiencing a pain far worse, reliving having lost the only person he had in his life, his father, and the guilt must have been overwhelming… Seteth wished he could make it go away. _Somehow_.

His hand caressed Byleth’s head gently. He had never before felt his hair, but it was soft, almost like emerald silk flowing through his fingers. Seteth carded it through his hands, staring down at the top of Byleth’s head, waiting for the moment he would lift himself from his lap and he would have to face those bleary, grief-stricken, tear-filled eyes. He wasn’t sure he would be able to endure it.

Byleth’s sobbing slowly quietened and Seteth breathed steadily through his nose. If this was all that the other man required, he could do this. He would sit here for as long as the other needed, hushing him, caressing his head and holding him in his lap, if that was what he needed. This had certainly taken a rather sharp turn from being a mere confessional… he had never once had a sinner fall sobbing into his lap.

But this was no ordinary sinner. This was _Byleth_ ; mercenary turned professor turned archbishop, with the power of the progenitor god dwelling somewhere deep within him.

Was that the reason why Byleth ached so deeply?

“S-Seteth…” Byleth gasped out into the priest’s robes, muffled by the fabric. Seteth’s hands smoothed softly over Byleth’s hair still, and he almost lost himself in the calming repetitive motions. His face relaxed and then immediately went tight when Byleth lifted his head.

His thin brows were drawn together, upwards into a deeply wrinkled frown, taught with pain, and his eyes seemed to pull downwards. Tears streaked down his face, staining his flushed red cheeks and the candlelight faintly caught onto the salty rivers, glittering them with gold. Seteth’s hands moved.

They shifted down from Byleth’s hair, along his face, cupping it, framing the other’s jaw in his strong palms. His thumbs swept over the tear streaks, sweeping them away. Byleth was _beautiful_. Tormented with anguish, shoulders still shaking, he trembled under Seteth’s careful touch. Now the priest knew he was in far too deep, was breaching almost every single code of conduct there was between priest and sinner during a confessional… but _flames to them all_. No longer did Seteth care for rules or the consequences that came from defying them.

Byleth _needed_ him.

“You could not have known that this was the path your life was going to take,” Seteth said gently, afraid that if he spoke any louder that Byleth would simply shatter into a million tiny pieces. “You could never have known that things would be this way. You could not have prepared for this. You did what you had to do. You did what needed to be done.”

Byleth’s lower lip trembled again and _oh_ , for a brief moment did Seteth want to kiss him. He wanted to still those lips. He couldn’t bear to hear another pained cry pass from him and wanted to silence the grief. The thought disappeared as quickly as it came, almost quickly enough that Seteth didn’t acknowledge it.

“All the lives I have ended—” Byleth began.

“And all those you have _saved_.” Seteth’s thumbs continued to stroke over Byleth’s cheeks, skimming his high cheekbones, sweeping in the dark purple and rubbed-red crescents of his under-eye area. Byleth’s emerald eyes slid shut for just a moment, allowing Seteth to brush away the tears wetting and clumping his fair lashes together and once more, the priest found himself captivated by the new archbishop’s beauty.

Seteth would never have described another man as beautiful before, but there simply was no other word for it. Byleth was _beautiful_.

“Do not torment yourself any longer. The goddess will forgive you.” Seteth paused and waited until Byleth opened his eyes and emerald stared back at emerald. “But only you can forgive yourself.”

Byleth shifted and immediately Seteth froze. Their faces drew closer and the priest realised he could not lean back any further with his head against the back of the booth. Byleth moved onto his knees, moving closer between Seteth’s, with his face still nestled gently in the other’s palms. His head tilted forward and his forehead came to lean against Seteth’s, his golden circlet pressed against the professor’s skin. From up so close, he could smell the other man. He smelled faintly, _ever so faintly_ , of old books, parchment and ink, something that surprised Seteth. He would have thought he smelled like steel and blood. But no, nothing so callous. Not anymore.

His delicate lashes fanned out over his cheeks as his eyes slid shut and he took a breath in. Seteth watched the other man as closely as possible, eyes darting about to scan the other’s face. He could see faint silver scars lining Byleth’s cheeks that he could not feel with thumbs, skin-surface scratches that healed quickly.

“Seteth… your advice has been… invaluable,” Byleth whispered, voice cracking into nothingness when he spoke. His throat was so hoarse.

“This is not how a confessional traditionally goes,” Seteth said, still holding onto Byleth’s face, as if his hands were glued there. “One does not usually come falling into the priest’s lap sobbing.”

Byleth’s lips quirked into a smile and a huff of breath escaped him as a laugh. “I imagine not. I was… overcome.”

Seteth paused. “It is quite alright.”

Bright green eyes fluttered open once more and Seteth could see they were bloodshot from crying so much. He could barely stand to look at Byleth from so close; inches away from his own face, it felt like Byleth was searching his soul for more answers, more reassurance that Seteth simply did not have to give. He felt exposed and vulnerable and, in a way that he had not felt in an impossibly long time; it was not like the vulnerability of battle where one was at the mercy of another’s blade. No, nothing like that. This was a far more intimate vulnerability; where Seteth _wanted_ to let himself be seen by Byleth but was too afraid to let go.

“Do you… how do you feel?” Seteth asked awkwardly.

Byleth blinked a few times and tipped his head forwards. His lips grazed over Seteth’s in a feather-light brush where all Seteth could feel was the rough, chapped, bitten skin of Byleth’s lips. He tensed and his shoulders shot up. As quickly as the touch of lips came, they disappeared.

“Enlightened.”

Seteth swallowed thickly. Was it always so hot in a confessional booth? Surely not. It was simply because Byleth was nestled between his knees, pushed almost flush to his body and his warm breath fanned over Seteth’s face. It was simply because of the steady blush rising up over Seteth’s cheeks and to his pointed ears. Thank the Goddess that the darkness of the confessional booth mostly covered his shame.

“It is as you said it would be… a powerful emotional moment.”

Throat too tight to speak, Seteth said nothing. Only stared back, wide-eyed, at Byleth, who was still mere inches away from his face. As ever, the other man didn’t seem to realise just how flustered his single action had made Seteth; the kiss was barely there, if one could have even called it a kiss, merely an accidental brush of lips. Yes, that is what Seteth would excuse it as.

“I have not yet forgiven myself… but… I believe I can begin on that path. Perhaps the Goddess may guide me,” Byleth said, drawing back and away from Seteth, sitting on his haunches and folding his palms neatly in his lap. How strange; for the archbishop to kneel before his assistant, chin tucked to his chest demurely. Seteth sat with his legs still spread, hands finally having left Byleth’s face to squeeze the scarlet pillow beneath him, blinking dumbly a few times.

“Byleth…”

The other looked up and his lips quirked to the side again in a smile, in that unique Byleth way. Lop-sided and awkward and far too endearing for Seteth’s thundering heart to handle. “Ah, you said my name.”

“ _By_ —…” Seteth staggered out again. Unable to control himself any longer he leaned forward, hands finding the sharp curve of Byleth’s jaw amongst his archbishop garb, slipping under the collar to curve around the back of the other’s neck and he drew him in. Seteth leaned down, hunching over so that his lips could push into Byleth’s properly.

He could deny himself no longer. He would chastise himself later, perhaps with a fiercer flogging than he endured for over a decade, but he decided his punishment could come later. For now, he had to feel those lips against his; those which had endured so much, those which sobbed and wailed and cried, and those which had criticised their owner so harshly without reason.

No longer would Byleth reprimand himself. No longer would Byleth wallow in guilt and pain. Seteth could not - _would not_ \- allow it. Byleth did not reciprocate the kiss, merely allowed Seteth to press their lips together and hold them there, if only for a taste, so that he could commit the rough texture of the other’s lips to his memory.

When they parted, Byleth blinked dumbly up at the priest. Immediately, a hot wave of guilt crashed over Seteth, submerging him in his own mortification. What had he done? How could he, the very picture of self-control, discipline and dignity, behave so rashly and upon something so base as physical desire? He leaned back and put a hand over his mouth aghast as if he himself could not believe what he had done.

It was a lapse in judgement, drawn in by Byleth’s pretty eyes and tempting lips. Seteth swore an oath to flog himself more severely in the morning.

“Archbishop—” Seteth began behind his hand.

“No.” Byleth leaned up onto his knees, suddenly appearing… shy. His eyes were cast downwards, and he was fidgeting awkwardly with the fabric of Seteth’s robes as he neared. “Say my name once more.”

Seteth couldn’t. He couldn’t use the other’s name. He knew if he did, he would fall again.

“ _Please_.”

Byleth’s hands skimmed over Seteth’s thighs and the man bristled beneath the archbishop’s touch. Flames, what he would do to give in to the other… to touch Byleth’s body. But he could not. For a multitude of reasons, all of which raced through Seteth’s head, screaming at him. The voices of reason echoed in Seteth’s head at an almost deafening pitch; he could barely hear his own rapid breathing over the sound of his own thoughts.

But then Byleth was before him, one hand coming up to hold onto Seteth’s wrist so that he could tug the hand covering his mouth away. Met with little resistance, Seteth’s hand fell.

“Seteth… say my name. Here, just for now… I do not wish to be archbishop,” Byleth whispered, almost pleading. When those bright green eyes looked up at him, still rimmed with red from crying, Seteth couldn’t deny him.

“ _Byleth_ ,” he breathed, leaning back in, despite the screaming voices in his head, and he silenced them as he kissed Byleth once more. The press of their lips was firmer against one another, more insistent as both succumbed to their desires. Seteth let out a long-held-in breath through his nose and tilted his head slightly, angling Byleth’s too so that the slide of their lips was more pleasant and more slick.

Feathered kisses breathed against Seteth’s lips, soft but needy in their press. Byleth’s hands were pulling more insistently on his robes in his lap, trying to pull himself impossibly closer although Byleth’s chest was already pressed between Seteth’s thighs.

The dance of Byleth’s tongue over Seteth’s lower lip startled him but briefly, sending a hot shiver through his body and tentatively, he parted his lips. It had been centuries, _achingly long centuries_ since he had kissed someone else, especially with as much need and passion as this. The hot muscle of the other man’s tongue ran over his lower lip before slipping inside and Seteth couldn’t help the groan that drew up from his throat.

How could another person feel so good? How could the simple press of lips ignite a fire so fierce in the pit of Seteth’s stomach? Had he simply forgotten the passionate touch of another since his wife’s death? Suddenly, he was unsure how he had survived so long without the intensity of hands pulling at his robes, teeth tugging at his lip.

Seteth groaned again, his fingers impulsively pulling at the hair of Byleth’s neck as the other bit down. Byleth’s mouth momentarily left Seteth’s to gasp sharply as the hair was tugged and he hissed through his teeth, eyes wrenching shut into a tight squeeze. Seteth opened his eyes just a fraction to see the debauched and sacrilegious expression of pleasure etched onto the archbishop’s face.

_No… not archbishop. Byleth._

He breathed his name into the other’s lips and then hungrily dove in for another kiss, stealing Byleth’s breath away. He felt the other man shudder in his greedy hands, hands sliding away from his neck to pull at the front of the opulent golden robes. He half wanted to tear them away from Byleth’s body and yet, his self-control made him respect the garb.

Instead, he pulled back from the breath-taking kiss and stared hard at Byleth, eyes ablaze. The other man looked ruined; face flushed scarlet, eyes half-lidded but still red and lips kiss-bitten and swollen beyond belief. The archbishop was panting hard, eyes staring at where his hands were pulling at Seteth’s robes.

The priest cupped Byleth’s chin and whispered against his lips, _“off”_ , the simplest command and Byleth eagerly complied.

Ordinarily, Seteth would have been horrified by his forward behaviour, commanding the archbishop, but the other man was so ready to oblige and Seteth was hungrier than he had ever been before, starved to taste Byleth over and over again until the texture of his lips, and the taste of his skin were committed to memory.

The belt about Byleth’s middle came undone, the sash fell away, and the large cape quickly followed, falling to the floor of the confessional booth in a forgotten golden heap. With nimble fingers, Byleth unbuttoned the white robe and then tossed that aside too, left kneeling in nothing more than a demure black gown.

How had a man so powerful, so elegant, so perfectly flawed in his entirety come to appear so modest, and yet so _wanting_ before Seteth? How could he have allowed this? Byleth hands startled him from his stupor when they reached for Seteth’s lap, his hands brushing over the tent growing there.

Two pairs of green eyes met, and everything stopped.

“Seteth—”

“Byleth… do not…” Seteth struggled to speak, his throat tight as if something other than his bothersome uniform were choking him. He sighed and composed himself, reaching to hold onto Byleth’s wrists at his belt buckle. “Do not feel… as if you must…”

“Flames, Seteth… there is nothing I want more than this,” Byleth quickly answered. “Please, if you would allow me…”

His quiet voice trailed off, leaving the gentle tugging of his fingers at Seteth’s belt buckle to finish the sentence. Closing his eyes and letting out another sigh, Seteth’s hands fell away and he allowed Byleth to open up his robes. Feeling himself being stripped by his archbishop’s hands, Seteth shuddered; the fire in his stomach cascaded violently, convulsing and burning with guilt and arousal simultaneously. He was too far gone to ignore the selfish desires of his body any longer.

A flush of cold air washed over his chest when Byleth managed to undo his buttons and tug the navy fabric open. Immediately, the other man’s bare hands fell upon Seteth’s chest. He tensed up and bit down on his lower lip. His eyes were wrenched shut, ashamed and embarrassed at how greatly he enjoyed the simple feeling of Byleth’s gentle hands on his skin. Wherever the other man touched seemed to ignite a hot guilty torch beneath his skin, burning, aching to be soothed by more flames, more of that scorching touch.

“ _Byleth_ …” Seteth breathed for whatever reason. It simply felt right to say; the sound of the other man’s name falling from his lips. He wanted to fill the space between them with his name. He finally opened his eyes and met Byleth’s curious gaze, pupils blown wide with desire, eclipsing those stunning emeralds.

“Seteth… I need you,” Byleth said plainly and Seteth almost laughed. Still, even at a moment like this, Byleth was as blunt as ever. And yet it caused a stirring between his legs – more so than the heated kissing and skimming hands over his chest. Byleth spoke his desires plainly and easily, much unlike Seteth who still struggled to admit to himself how badly he desired the other. The priest nodded, reaching forward and nervously, shakily unbuttoning the buttons of the archbishop’s plain black robe.

“I… _yes_ ,” Seteth replied. Still, with his erection straining against his small clothes, pitching an embarrassing tent in his robes, he couldn’t verbalise his need. Though his body spoke loudly enough, he decided. And Byleth was an excellent listener.

The men undressed one another, pulling open robes and unlacing breeches. Exposed to the elements, Seteth shuddered; he was burning hot, body coated in a layer of thin sweat, but the cold air of the night washed from under the scarlet curtain, cooling the sweat on his pale body. The candle that he had lit at the beginning of the confession was almost completely gone, melted into a hot puddle of wax that Seteth could associate with. He too, felt like he was melting.

“I want to touch you,” Byleth murmured, his voice, almost breathless as if he had been in a long battle. But the only battle ongoing was the clash of tongue and teeth when Seteth greedily reached forward to hold Byleth’s face again, sitting himself at the very edge of the cushioned pillow so that he balanced precariously on it, pressing his hips as far forward as he could against Byleth’s.

A sound crawled up from Seteth’s throat that he didn’t know he could make; something guttural, and truly desperate. His eyes fell shut when he felt Byleth’s hard cock swelling through his smallclothes against his own, the rub between them pleasant but still not quite enough. The fabric almost made it itchy, like something aching to be scratched and satisfied.

The archbishop’s tongue swam into Seteth’s mouth, exploring, and the priest allowed his tongue to meet the other’s. The unholy and sacrilegious feeling of the hot muscle invading his mouth made Seteth groan again as every church tradition was defiled by the tangling of tongues. _Flames to holy tradition_. All that mattered was the feeling of Byleth’s body against his, his hands eagerly pulling Seteth’s smallclothes down.

Matching the other’s pace, Seteth’s large hands came down Byleth’s slim body. He hadn’t realised it before, how slim the mercenary turned martyr actually was; he had a slim frame, but his muscles were chiselled and firm down his stomach and chest from years of fighting and arduous training that deserved merit. Seteth made a mental note to lavish Byleth’s body with his mouth the next time they yet.

A hot rush thrilled through him. The _next time_? He was getting too ahead of himself. Who was to say there would be another time? This was just a desperate tryst between two men, lost and overcome by their emotions… yes, that was what it was.

“Gods, _Seteth_ ,” Byleth gasped, the feeling of his hot breath washing over the priest’s ear making him startle. Sharp teeth nipped at his earlobe, huffing into his sensitive pointed ear and he shuddered violently. His ears… _flames_ , not even he knew his ears were so sensitive. Byleth’s mouth was so close and every pant, gasp and breath made the coil in the pit of Seteth’s stomach tighten further.

Greedily, and surprised by his own boldness, he shoved down the other’s breeches and grabbed hold of Byleth’s cock. It was _thick_. That was the first thought that rushed into his mind. The second was that it was hot, almost blazing in his hand. He groaned again, tilting his head back as he revelled in the hot weight settling in his palm and Byleth’s mouth moved further up his ear, huffing and flicking the tip of his tongue at the point of Seteth’s ear.

“ _Flames, Byleth_ —” Seteth managed out, interrupting himself with a long groan when Byleth’s hot mouth closed over the tip of his ear. He fisted the other’s cock eagerly, moving quickly and without any sort of rhythm or decorum. Byleth stuttered in his movements, and hung his head against Seteth’s shoulder, his own hand pushing into the priest’s smallclothes to hold his cock.

Seteth was dripping with desire, hissing through clenched teeth loudly when he felt Byleth’s calloused hand wrap around his dick. He had almost forgotten how good the feeling of another’s hand could feel wrapped around him. He had also almost forgotten the feeling of his own hand wrapped around himself but indulged himself once in a blue moon.

He was quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of Byleth’s callouses rubbing up and down his cock. It satisfied that itching sensation that he had felt, sending wave after wave of surmounting pleasure through his body.

“Byleth—”

“S-Seteth… let me,” Byleth breathed, lifting his head weakly from the priest’s shoulder. Their eyes met and then Byleth used his single hand to wrap around both their cocks, bringing their bodies closer than ever before. Seteth let out a truly unholy sound, a wanton moan escaping his parched lips and searing all the way up his throat. All his gasping and panting had left him parched.

“Oh… oh, _f-flames_ …” Seteth kept his head hung, leaning forward with his whole body hunched over so that his forehead was almost pressed against Byleth’s head of green hair.

Their cocks were rubbing up against one another, so similar in size, colour, and want. The friction of Byleth’s slightly rough hand, only made stickier by his sweaty palm, drew soft whimpers from Seteth, and Byleth gasped along with him, as if in a song of pleasure. The priest’s eyes were fluttering, overcome with the immense pleasure that was thrumming through his veins.

“Seteth, _Seteth_ … hah, a-ah…” Byleth moaned, swallowing dryly, moving his hand up and down quicker. Seteth’s hands were clutching onto the edge of his seat, curling underneath the wooden bench and sinking into the soft grainy wood beneath. Thank the gods and goddesses that no-one would ever look beneath the seat and see the crescents carved in by Seteth’s nails.

“Byleth… this is—” he began. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. Sacrilegious? Blasphemous? _Devastatingly good?_

“I want to see you… let me see you,” the other man said, still using his one hand to erratically jerk them both off and shakily, he reached up to hold Seteth’s cheek. His fingers were trembling, and his hold was a little tight but Seteth didn’t mind. Their eyes met and they stared at each other as Byleth worked them through their pleasure.

Two pairs of emerald eyes locked on one another; pupils blown wide. Ragged breathing filled the space between them, lips inches from one another, wanting nothing more than to be pressed together, but also wanting to hear the soft sounds escaping chapped lips. It had been too long since Seteth had felt so good; his body was burning as if he were on fire but his heart… his _heart_ was aching in his chest, pounding so powerfully against his ribcage he thought it might burst forth at any moment.

With a particularly sharp twist of the wrist, Seteth hissed through his teeth. Byleth seemed to like the noise and so did it again, repeating the upwards stroking motion whilst squeezing, almost as if he were milking Seteth. The priest’s hands flew to Byleth’s shoulders, hanging onto what little clothing remained hanging precariously at his narrow shoulders.

“Oh… oh _flames_ , I am close… s-so, _so close_ …” Seteth managed out. Byleth groaned aloud at his words, leaning forward to tip his head so his lips pressed chastely and briefly against Seteth’s, as if wordlessly encouraging him. If it were possible, Byleth’s pumping fist quickened over their cocks and the precum dribbling freely from the head of Seteth’s dick ran over Byleth’s slim fingers.

He could feel the coil tighten in his stomach and Seteth knew it wouldn’t be long until he reached his limit. He lowered his gaze from Byleth’s beautiful face and down to their flush cocks, both equally red and slick with precum. He wasn’t sure how close Byleth was but was hoping, somewhere deep down inside himself, that he was not far from cumming too.

“Byleth—”

“Again,” the other man panted, brow furrowing and mouth falling agape in pleasure.

“ _Byleth—!_ ”

With a shattered cry, Seteth came. His cum shot out from his cock, splattering over Byleth’s hand that was still twisting and pumping over them both quickly. His fingers crushed impossible tight into the other’s shoulders and Byleth hissed when he felt nails dig into his skin and leave scarlet moons in their wake. Seteth tossed his head back, verdant hair coming unstuck from his sweaty forehead and tumbling down his back and over his shoulders. The coil in his stomach snapped, sending ripple after powerful ripple of burning pleasure through his body, racing through his veins, making his heart felt like it stopped, overwhelmed in its revelry.

He could feel Byleth’s eyes on him even though his own were shut, could sense the reverie from the other man as he worked him through his orgasm.

“Seteth… just a little more… oh, _goddess_ , you are so p-perfect…”

Seteth could feel his ears burn even redder at Byleth’s words. Surely, they were not honest; just the words of a man lost in physical pleasure, adrenaline and lust clouding his brain. But they still sent his heart aflutter, restarting it after his shattering orgasm.

Crying weakly, almost breathlessly, Byleth came too, his cum dribbling out of the head of his cock and mixing with Seteth’s which ran down their lengths and soiled the floor of the confessional booth. His hand started to slow and finally, Seteth found the strength in himself to tilt his head forward and look upon Byleth’s euphoric face. His expression was one that he would remember when he would touch himself from henceforth; thin eyebrows drawn upwards, eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape, a beautiful rosy flush staining his cheeks, Byleth was the picture of sensuality incarnate. On his knees before Seteth, their cocks throbbing against one another, he was not an archbishop; _no_ , he was Byleth, nothing more than a man with physical and emotional desires, drowning in his own pleasure.

Their breathing was ragged and almost deafening to Seteth’s sensitive ears. Byleth was steadily slumping, falling down from his raised knees to rest on his haunches, their cocks coming unstuck from one another but still connected by thin strings of clear-white cum, snapping and dribbling on the floor. Byleth stared at his own hand, soiled with their mixed cum and then, shockingly, he wiped his hand in his archbishop robe.

Seteth rolled his nose in revulsion and eyes went wide. Breathlessly, he managed to speak. “You… you would defile the holy robes so readily…”

Byleth huffed a breath from his chapped lips, darting a dry tongue out in an attempt to lubricate them. “Your seed has defiled it too, Seteth.”

His cheeks pinked at the retort and he was suddenly aware of the cold air cooling the cum on his softening cock. He wanted to tuck himself away, but his arms were heavy, limp from being so tightly wound against Byleth’s body and shoulders. He let his body lean back and thump against the back of the booth.

“What was this?”

Byleth lifted his head and looked up at Seteth, trying to reply. “I… I am not sure.”

Seteth’s eyes slid shut. His heart was still thundering in his chest, but his head was a mess of emotions and logic fiercely battling it out. He wanted to fall into Byleth’s arms, hold him close and breathe in his scent, that slight smell of parchment that he found most enjoyable. But his brain reasoned it would be beyond illicit and a breach of interest if he were to court the archbishop. Wait – _court_? When had he gotten so head of himself? Why did he assume Byleth even wanted to begin courting? Just because of some desperate physical tryst at the back of an abandoned cathedral he had once called home? _How shameless_. He was getting ahead of himself.

But Byleth’s face was so crest-fallen, a mixture of emotions that Seteth tried to read when he opened them again. The candle was barely aglow, weak and almost extinguished in its molten wax puddle. He looked dejected, but still a flushed mess, making Seteth’s heart ache in his chest.

“I… I did not find it unpleasant,” Seteth grit out as if his body were trying to stop himself from admitting it.

Byleth huffed a laugh again. “I did not either. I very much enjoyed it.”

“I am glad.”

Silence fell between them and Byleth wiped the rest of their mixed cum from his fingers. Seteth’s cock had gone completely flaccid now but was still wet with cum that was quickly drying and becoming rather unpleasant. Shifting forward, Byleth’s hand reached out and he took a hold of it. Seteth jolted in his seat, eyes going wide as he stared down at the other man who offered him that lop-sided, awkward but honest smile.

“Please, allow me.” Byleth was gentle tucking Seteth away, pulling the band of his smallclothes up and over his cock so that he could regain his dignity. Well, whatever was left of it anyway. He sat back on his haunches and tucked himself away too but they both sat there, their robes still wide open, the cool chill of the night air washing over them and drying the sweat on their bodies.

“I enjoyed it because it was you.”

The words startled Seteth. He was still full of surprises, able to elicit shocked responses from the priest at the drop of a hat. “Pardon?”

“Because it was you, I… enjoyed what we did. Thank you, Seteth.”

The priest shook his head, tutting. “Thanking me after we defiled holy grounds with such a sinful act… how obscene.”

The smile reappeared and Byleth’s face relaxed. He shakily stood, using his hand to support himself on his stiff legs, a mixture of jelly and tension from being kneeled for so long. He drew his black robe shut, replacing the strings over the buttons. Seteth watched him dress, pulling at his own robes so that he could shield himself from the cold. He would bathe as soon as he left the cathedral; the cum on his soft cock and cold sweat on his back was unpleasant and he wished to rid himself of the filth immediately.

“I hope you understand this was not a meaningless act for me,” Byleth said softly, letting his arms fall to his sides when the final button was done up. Seteth watched the other man and seemingly, Byleth struggled to speak. His eyes darted about nervously and his lip came between his teeth, hands clenching into fists and twitching with nerves. “My… affections for you have grown as of late. I realise how inappropriate it would for us if we began a relationship, not simply as archbishop and advisor, but as lovers, especially as two men, and especially in the middle of a war… but I cannot help but dream of it. I value your friendship, your guidance, your axe, everything about you.” He paused. “Do not feel obliged to return my feelings, I am simply happy to have enjoyed this moment with you.” Byleth laughed breathlessly once again. “I hope you do not think any differently of me, Seteth.”

The priest blinked a few times. His heart leapt in his chest, and _oh goddess_ , how he wanted to sing to the heavens, clasp Byleth’s hands in his and pepper his face with kisses. He wanted to accept the proposal, wanted to hold the other man until the end of time, until they both became old and too weak to do anything but hold each other. But he couldn’t move, as if glued to his seat. “I… do not.”

Byleth smiled gently once more, turning and pushing the scarlet curtain aside so that he could leave the confessional booth. Seteth wanted to reach out and stop him, _embrace him, take him into his arms—_

“Sleep well, Seteth.”

And then Byleth was gone, with a melancholic smile on his face. Too late did Seteth’s hand reach out and the scarlet curtain fell, sending the priest tumbling into darkness. The smell of burning filled his nostrils as the candle finally flickered out, wisps of grey lavender swirling up into the air and invading his already clouded mind. He hung his head, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes and he rubbed so fiercely he saw stars. He cursed himself inwardly over and over again. Why was he such a fool?

His heart wanted one thing, but his brain argued against it. How could he remain unbiased against Byleth if he knew how honest his smiles were? How could he remain impartial if he knew how euphoric his expression was during their lust-filled moments? How could he remain unprejudiced if he knew the feeling of Byleth’s hair running between his fingers and the gentle smile that would crawl across the other’s face when he awoke in his bed, long lashes fanning his beautifully high cheekbones?

How _could he?_

Grumbling, Seteth rebuttoned his robes and finally stood, his feet heavy. He clambered out of the booth and breathed in the cold night air, his breath forming silvery clouds before his face. Byleth was long gone by now, perhaps to bed, perhaps to bath. Seteth could look for him. It was not too late to find the man and let him know how he truly felt, how he wanted to be there for him, as more than an advisor, but as his _lover_. He could still salvage the potential for a relationship.

He had decided. Setting off at a brisk pace, Seteth sought out Byleth.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel or not sequel? Let me know.
> 
> If I do write one, not sure which direction to take; more unresolved and complicated feelings or should they be happy, perhaps a few years later, after the war?


End file.
